The Seat Where Mr. Fiedler Sat *FIRST THREE CHAPTERS*

Each morning, the girl would see Mr. Fiedler on the number thirteen tram, seated on the same left-hand side window seat as the morning before and every morning as far back as she could remember. This is the story about a young girl named Wilda, who sees her teacher on the tram to school every morning; a teacher who loves music and stories and making children smile. This is a story about a poor country and some powerful, scared men and time and how it changes. It is a story about fear and friendship and forgiveness. So, yeah. Just read it. It's my entry for the "Young Movellist of the Year". Please comment and stuff. I'm only posting 4 chapters, but please tell me if you would like some more. Peace and stuff. :)EDIT: I'm not submitting this for the competition. I want to share the rest of the story with Movellas. I'm not sure how many likes I'll get, seeing as there is no "One Direction" based explicit content, but I'll see how things go. Thanks guys.

1. Salutations

The World was far different then and not so many stories had been told. Everyone has a story: some are very short and some are very long. Some are blanched and prim and tied up in a red bow and some are scattered across the jaws of a shadowed shore.

In fact, you are holding one in your hands at this very moment.

Please forgive me. Where are my manners? All stories must start with a beginning, and here is mine:

I’m a shadow, a scavenger, a forgotten something. I am also quite partial to Liquorice Allsorts when the opportunity occurs. I am not Life or Death or any other kind of omnipotent Father Christmas-type figure. I simply collect stories; as many as I can carry.

Salutations. I am your esteemed narrator. The narrator bit is kind of a given. The esteemed part was earned. See, I’m not like the other humans. I can stop and look at the things that they can’t or don’t want to see. I have the time to listen because no one cares to listen to me. I have time as a friend; well, perhaps “friend” is not exactly an adequate choice of words. Time is the type of “friend” who borrows your money and food as often as they like and you’re too afraid to say or do anything because you still kind of owe them for this big thing that they did for you that one time. Do you know what I mean? Of course you do.

And one day, time will leave me. It will leave all of us. But then what would I be? A shrivelled old thing, weighed down by the stories in my pockets. They’re useful things, pockets. Warm and familiar, they’ll welcome anybody. And one day, they’ll welcome a new story-collector. That new story-collector could be you.

Now, onto the small matter of a miracle that I found in the gutters of a city which no one cares to remember anymore. This miracle was not was not wrapped in brown paper and secured with a red ribbon. It did not twinkle in the starlight, and it was not warm and welcoming. This miracle was a story, about a girl who never thought to think, a man who knew everything, a window seat and some fear. Once it belonged to humans, not unlike yourselves, at a time when lots of confused people burnt stories for fun. I can remember that time very well, because there were many stories to collect. Stories that had been charred and moulded, so much so, that they were barely recognisable and nobody could un-pick one from the other. But everyone has a story. Tonight, this one belongs to you. Go ahead, open it. It is a gift.

There are many things that you can do with a story: despise it, cherish it, compress it, share it, forgive it.